tell me we're a mess
by RichelleBrinkley
Summary: <html><head></head>Tom, Richelle has decided, is quite undeniably attractive.</html>


**Title: **tell me we're a mess

**Author: **RichelleBrinkley

**Word Count: **1,231

**Rating:** K+

**AN: **Written for Tibby's birthday, I hope you like it sweetie! xx

Title taken from Neon Trees' song 'Mad Love'.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Raven Hill Mysteries_, it is the property of Emily Rodda.

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She hasn't always watched Tom Moysten from the corner of her eye.

In fact, it has only been very recently that she finds her gaze straying to him whenever the six of them—Teen Power Inc.—sit together every day after school at the Glen.

Her mother had told her once that curiosity killed the cat. Well, for Richelle Brinkley, Tom Moysten was far from a subject of mere curiosity; he was an enigma—an unknown variable, a mystery to be solved and a story to be unravelled.

Richelle decides she wants to be the person to do just that.

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Tom, Richelle has decided, is quite undeniably attractive.

Not in the _damn he's sexy_ kind of way that Nick is. Although the longer she looks at him, Richelle has to admit that the gangly boy is rather sexy in his own way.

No, there is a certain fragility to Tom; it is in the way he rubs the back of his neck nervously whenever he's unsure of something; it is in the way his eyes screw up and he struggles to compose himself whenever they're in danger and he thinks no one is looking; it is the crease of his brow and the deftness of his fingers.

Richelle finds him one afternoon, bent over his sketchpad amongst the tall grasses that scatter the Glen.

"Tom," she greets amicably, if rather distractedly—she is searching for a suitable place to sit down. Tom is settled with his back against a gum tree and there are grass stains on his clothes. Richelle wrinkles her nose. Perhaps he was lying on the ground before.

Tom doesn't respond to her greeting for a long moment—too caught up in his sketching, Richelle knows. She can't see what is inspiring his pencil to fly so dexterously over the paper, but whatever it is, it must be important. Richelle refuses to be ignored unless it is something very important.

"Tom?" she prods him in his side, having settled down opposite him with her back against a log.

"Hmm?" Tom mumbles absentmindedly, scratching his temple with the rubber end of his pencil. "What is it?" Still he doesn't look up from his drawing. Richelle is starting to get cross now.

"Tom, don't ignore me!" She huffs and crosses her arms across her chest.

"Sure, alright," Tom mutters, clearly lost in his own little world. Richelle sniffs disdainfully. His rudeness is irking. Well, so be it. If he is going to ignore her, than she will just have to ignore him too. Richelle turns her back on the still-oblivious boy, fully intending to devote some quality time to searching for new chips in her manicure.

Except that doesn't take very long, and when she is finished (there are two chips, one on her left index finger and the other on her right thumb), Richelle finds her gaze straying, once again, to the budding artist opposite her that is Tom Moysten. Infuriatingly, he still seems to be too caught up in his drawing to notice or speak to her.

She doesn't know how it happens, but at some point during her critical scrutinisation of him, Richelle's frown disappears and instead she finds herself studying Tom with a rather keen interest. His eyes narrow intently when he is drawing particularly fine detail, and Richelle wonders how his fingers are so precise and careful when he is such a disaster in other (namely physical) aspects of life.

But Tom Moysten is enigmatic not in the way he manages to draw so beautifully yet stumble so often. It isn't his love for food or constant disparage of his step-father that makes her stop and think. It isn't even the way he looks, long gangly limbs and too-messy hair, both of which Richelle is reluctant to admit do not to detract, but only add to his attractiveness.

It is the way Tom finally puts down his pencil, stretches his stiff muscles and rubs his eyes. It is the way he holds his sketchpad at arm's length, scrutinises his work and frowns. It is the sadness in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders which ultimately makes her frown too and reach out a consoling hand.

When she touches his shoulder, Tom jumps. Hurriedly, he closes his sketchpad and looks up. "Richelle," he says, sounding rather shocked, "How long have you been sitting there?"

Any fond feelings Richelle might have been having towards him are quelled instantly. She feels indignation bubbling in her chest and her eyes narrow once again.

"At least an hour, Tom! So nice of you to finally notice."

"I'm sorry," Tom shrugs, "I was busy sketching." He grins sheepishly. "Stop pouting at me, Princess. You know how I can get sometimes. Art is all I have in this world," he jokes, although Richelle thinks the sad truth of those words is written all too clearly in his eyes.

"I'm not pouting," Richelle says standoffishly, even though she knows she is. Tom's grin widens.

"Of course you're not. Now, what did you come here to talk to me about? Or have you just finally fallen prey to the Moysten charm?" He winks at her and Richelle finds herself startlingly flustered.

"No," she says with as much dignity as she can muster. "Liz wanted me to tell you that we've got a new job. Gardening," she adds when Tom raises an eyebrow.

To her surprise, he groans. "What?" she asks, confused by his reaction.

"You and Kontellis with dirt? Sounds terrible."

Richelle quivers indignantly. "No it doesn't."

"It does. You and Nick are gonna chew my ear off with all of your complaining about getting your clothes dirty."

"Tom, I am not afraid of a little dirt!" As soon as the words leave her mouth, Richelle's eyes widen and she realises her mistake, a second too late.

_"No! Don't you dare—"_

A handful of dirt hits her on the side of the head.

"Gotcha, Princess."

_"TOM!"_

He is laughing uncontrollably, down on his knees in the dirt and grass, both hands braced on the ground as his body shakes. When he reaches a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he leaves a big streak of dirt in its wake. Richelle has never seen anyone quite so stupid or disgusting.

Which is exactly why she puts her own palms to the dirt, crawls over on her hands and knees and doesn't stop until she is right in front of Tom, so close they're almost bumping noses.

Then, ignoring the dirt that cakes her palms and the grime that smears his face, she grabs a handful of his—annoyingly soft—hair and kisses him.

Tom splutters and blushes and looks down bashfully when she pulls away. "What was that for?"

Richelle smiles at him. "You threw dirt at me."

"And that made you want to _kiss_ me?!"

Richelle raises her eyebrows. "No, Tom, the fact that you dropped your sketchpad and I can see that you spent the last hour drawing me in secret made me want to kiss you."

Tom opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish, his cheeks a bright pink. "...Y–You're welcome?"

Richelle rolls her eyes. Then she smiles and leans in again, this time with her lips against Tom's ear.

"Don't spoil it, Tom. Just kiss me again, I can tell that you want to."

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><p><strong>AN: I have a NickRichelle fic coming soon, so look out for that. ****And, as always, thanks for reading.**

**Much Love,**

**RichelleBrinkley xx**


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